


written with a needle on the corner of an eye

by Mythopoeia, TolkienGirl, Victoryindeath2



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [108]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Second Person, Power Play, Psychological Torture, Set during Chapter 8 of within the hollow crown, title from Arabian Nights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 13:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19888786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythopoeia/pseuds/Mythopoeia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victoryindeath2/pseuds/Victoryindeath2
Summary: "If lies can save a man once, truth can save him twice." - Arabian Nights





	written with a needle on the corner of an eye

-I-

“I think I was sixteen. We were home for the summer, Maglor and I. One of our cousins was visiting. Fingolfin’s son, Fingon. Celegorm thought it would be a sight more amusing to rag on a city boy than his own brothers, who’d already learned his tricks.

It’s called a snipe hunt, but what’s being hunted isn’t really snipe. It’s something fantastical. Celegorm said it had horns and long teeth, but otherwise looked rather like a deer. At least, so I heard afterwards. No, I wasn’t at home that day. I would have put a stop to it...a waste of bullets, not to mention it caused a good deal of family spatting.

Anyway, Celegorm spent the morning being particularly friendly with Fingon, whom he hadn’t shown much interest in before. Why not? Well, I suppose because he was a cousin. Celegorm didn’t see the use in cousins, generally. He lent Fingon a gun that wouldn’t fire and told him what snipes liked best to eat: voles, Celegorm said, but also thimbleberries. Fingon knew, because we had shown him, that thimbleberries only grew in the heart of our nastiest bramble-patch. And that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that the bramble-patch was on the other side of the hill, past a dense bush of firs. Fingon was game, though. He borrowed sturdier boots and a spare pair of work trousers and set off. Got lost at least six times, or so he said later. We certainly thought him lost, since he didn’t appear at supper. Celegorm laughing so hard he couldn’t speak—that gave it away a bit. 

We all went out to search for him. He wasn’t in the brambles. He wasn’t anywhere. Even Celegorm didn’t like to think that something had happened to him. In the end, he beat us back to the house. His clothes were filthy, and he had a few scratches. Mostly, he was just hopping mad. He said he’d caught a snipe after all. It hadn’t made good eating, so he’d thrown it in the pond. Really, he’d taken Celegorm’s favorite boots and buried them in the mud. So there was another spat, like I said. He went home shortly after.”

_Just there, Maitimo. Stand just there._

“We never furnished the attic. At least—I mean, my brothers and I would drag old chairs and ruined cushions there. They were forts and castles, after a fashion. It was near freezing in winter and hot in the summer. I still liked it. Yes, I—sometimes I wanted to get away.”

_I do not know if you have come to negotiate, but I have._

“I—I don’t know what my first memory is. I’m telling the truth, swear to—I only remember when Maglor and I were the only—perhaps a little before that. I can remember when it was just me and—No, I wasn’t lonely before Maglor was born.”

_Listen carefully, for I do not like this. I do not like—_ compromising _, as you well know. Yet we must be men, mustn’t we? And you are so very tired, and I am patient_.

What do you want from me?

_I am glad they have given you something to wear. I can almost forget that dreadful—massacre of your flesh. Can you?_

“We were like most boys, I suppose. In dresses until we were five. Or six. They were monstrous inconvenient. I was glad to get out of mine. No, I don’t remember ever being mistaken for a girl.”

_Lord, these weeks have been long, have they not? For you, I think, they pass like centuries. Pluck up! I shall not ask for your father’s precious mine today, for all his intricate works and workings. And in exchange for such a boon, you will stay with me awhile. Well?_

I…

 _Oh, my dear. Oh, I am quite grieved to see what has become of you. Even under all those bandages—we both know. And here, you are shaking! Be brave, now. I want to hear nothing of importance. I only want to know_ you.

You already do.

_I know your sins. Your dreams. But what of the gentler memories, Maitimo? What of your brothers?_

What?

 _I told you, once, did I not? I should like to know your brothers. I should like to know what it was that made your family so wild and dreadfully—free. This is my bargain, Maitimo. A truce, if you but entertain me_. An unknown story, a delicious secret, in return for my extended favor. _I said those words to you._

Please.

_Fie, my boy. See here, I shall leave your humble holy man untouched. I shall leave the sacred certainties of Mithrim untouched. You, I shall touch only very softly. Do you agree to these terms? A story for a life?_

(You’re afraid. This is not a new realization; you have been afraid for a long time and now it has devoured you. Where is the pride and passion of the saints? The resolve that would let them offer their hands and their tongues willingly?

You thought your tongue was given back to you, in between the fire and the flood. It never was. And now, that holy pride is lost, too, to a sinner. You are ravaged beyond repair, and yet. You are numb in the spaces of your mind, and yet—

You _shrink_ from the thought of more pain. He offers you kindness, and mercy, _and it is kindness and mercy, in its dreadful permanence_. You crawl. He has made you crawl.)

_Come now, Maitimo. Nod to show me that you agree._

“I suppose I was a decent student. We used to have—we used to have recitations, of a sort. Spelling contests. It didn’t matter if I won. No, it didn’t. I was the eldest, of course I knew longer words before the rest of them, and didn’t stumble over the letters. Later, they knew more than I did, I believe. Yes, of course. In the city, I—I studied under several masters. No, I was never caned. I was too old.”

_Never in trouble, then?_

I did not say that.

_Tell me, then._

“Once—I was weary of my lessons. The masters assigned such lengthy compositions, and I had fancied a girl at a party the night prior, and I wanted to call on her again. I hid all the inkwells in the school library, and when they were looking for them, I escaped. I came back the next morning early and begged pardon. They only said they had been young once, too.”

_But you thought you were rather brave, coming back like that._

I was willing to bear the punishment.

_A whipping?_

I knew it wouldn’t be.

_Ha! Of course not, as you said. Oh, I beg your pardon. I must not laugh at you. That is most uncivil, and we are being gentlemen again. But what, then—they would tell your father?_

No. I was seventeen. They thought me a decent student, generally, and a little prankish otherwise.

_Well, in that case, you came back to friends, not masters. Tell me, really. What made you think you were brave?_

“They were little things only. I had been impatient with Celegorm and Caranthir, for they made so much washing. So much mess. I had—I think I had lied about how many sums I did on my slate. My penance was to say the _pater noster_ three times. I remember that.”

_If I ask not for your blood-deep loyalty, you should be grateful. I think you are already. I can see it in the lines of your shoulders. You will give me whatever I ask, then, in thanks. I would hear you say it._

I will give you whatever you ask.

(You hate him, but the feeling has been borne up too long, through too much. Now it is a candle doused. You cannot even find your hatred for him, amid the fear. Maybe you never…maybe it has always been so, maybe it was always meant to end here, staring down his waxen face and life-carved eyes. Knowing what it is to feel the cruelty and coddling of his hands.

Maybe you—stripped of safety, beauty, future—were always this weak.

You certainly can believe _that_ , of yourself.)

_You must have a favorite._

I don’t.

_But you thought of one name before any others, did you not? Tell me about him._

“Maglor and I—Maglor was quite certain that if we planted the beans from Orome, they would grow into the beanstalk from the fairytale. Orome was a farmer who lived a mile from us. Yes, he was a friend. He gave us the beans when we walked past his house. We were exploring. Maglor didn’t like to explore much, he liked best to read and sing. He began to play quite young. The violin, mostly. He was better than any of us. Yes, he was better than me. Of course he was. Anyway, about the beans. They did grow, but only as ordinary beans do—very slowly at first. Maglor was so disappointed. Fortunately, I had found a bit of pyrite. Yes, that is fool’s gold, I know. There was—Father kept some in his forge.”

_You didn’t call him_ Father.

No.

_Say the name properly, lad. Don’t hold back._

(It doesn’t hurt any of them, dead or dead-alive, to be spoken of like this. It only hurts you. _You_ , who are on your belly, glad to have the knife sheathed, the brand cooled, the whip curled away.)

“Athair kept some in his forge. It has a chemical use of some sort. I sprinkled a bit about the new stalks, and Maglor was pleased, to find the giant’s gold. Even later, when he learned that I had done it, he—he—”

_Now, now, you’re doing so well. Ah, I see. These lips are dry. Shall you have a little water? Shall you drink it gently? Maitimo, shall you drink it gently?_

Yes.

 _I think you should address me with more respect, my boy. Let us hear you answer again, and let us hear you call me,_ sir, _as you once might have called those friendly schoolmasters._

Yes, sir.

 _Ah, ah. See? This is not so hard. You tell me of your idylls, and_ I _give you comfort. Respite. Almost—perhaps next time, perhaps you will have repose._

Let me tell you another.

_So eager! Is this, at last, the charm I have long sought?_

I prefer to—

_To speak rather than to be spoken to? I would imagine, after so much rebellious silence. I am almost proud of you for choosing. Almost, Maitimo. You have much to learn, yet._

“Celegorm fell from the forge roof, once. He turned his ankle. Curufin was worried about it, and crafted him a splint of saplings. It wasn’t needed. His ankle wasn’t broken. He hobbled about a bit, though. It let him escape serving at—at Mass. He had no love for standing still like that.”

_What did he love?_

What?

_Try that again._

I do not understand you, sir.

_What is it, particularly, that Celegorm loved?_

“Celegorm loved his dogs. He liked animals generally, I suppose. Hunting them and raising them. We were all raised to live off the land. Celegorm knew the most, though. He could tell you what plants to eat. What birds nested high or low.”

_A regular naturalist. He must have enjoyed the journey west! But no: I shall be generous again. I will not make you speak of that today. I can see from those fluttering lashes, how it hurts you._

I am only tired.

(And he is. You can see that. You can see how the boy is tired. You can see how he shivers as he stands, with his arms bound in front of him, his ankles linked together. The length of chain between wrists and ankles clatters. He is white to his dry lips. When you rose to touch those lips, he did not move beneath your hand. He drank the water you gave him with no hint of irony in his bleary eyes. You savored the moment, and your heart beat too quickly, remembering how, once, he leapt.

You do not miss that fire. You are pleased to see him like this, even if Mairon spoiled his smooth, strong body with jealous rage. The welcome return of his soft, bright hair, curling about his ears, is not enough to save his beauty, but you have saved a piece of his soul.

There is still use in him. Some use in understanding all that made him. All that Feanor _made_.)

_Does it comfort you to speak of them? Eh? I asked you a question, sir!_

I am not seeking comfort.

_For shame! As if you do not wish to be caressed with a father’s kindness._

_Maitimo, come closer—_

-II-

( _Maitimo, come closer_ , you bid him, and he does. He moves slowly across the floorboards, though his steps are a little firmer. It has been full a week since last you called him to you, and you see that the flushed heat of low fever has left him. You see that he is still in pain.

 _Come closer_ , and he has almost reached you, his hands bound and his ankles hobbled, the long length of chain a pendulum swaying as much as it is a weight to stoop his shoulders. Nothing can make his shoulders un-broad: those are his bones.

He is painfully thin.

 _Kneel,_ you say, and he goes still and quiet: as close as he has come to rebellion since you stripped him before the guileless glass and made him face the self that time has made.

He says nothing.

You say, _Am I to ask you again?_ )

“We had two fields, both behind the barn, one that stretched from the tree-line to the creek and one—we played many games there, though we played more often on the lawn past the trees. Yes, the crabapple and maple trees.”

_I remember them well, and how they looked in April rain. Now, tell me. What did you do the night I left you?_

Nothing.

_If I took a finger for each lie…_

“We tried to grow orange trees in the first field, but they withered and died. The winters were too hard for them.”

_Do you think that my patience runs eternal? Your hands, boy. Give me your hands._

“At first I hated the city. It was so different from home. I had my studies, yes, but Maglor was busy with his music. Yes, he was talented. More than talented. I—my favorite place to study was the library, before I realized that I could venture out and explore the shops surrounding. There was a café I liked best. I don’t recall the name of the street. I think—I was fond of it because it had such enormous windows and the light from the west lasted so long in the evenings. It seemed brighter than anywhere else, even in winter. When I sat there, watching the world pass by, I didn’t feel so alone.”

( _Kneel_ , he tells you, biting back a slug-lipped smile, and your first thought is not even to disobey…it is only that kneeling will _hurt_. The new-grown skin (if such it can be called) on your thighs and shins is paper-tender. You stare at him; you see that he is angry in that sly, amused way with which he concocts rage.

You are no longer allowed to imagine dying. Not when you chose _this_.

It is hard to lower yourself to your knees. Even now, you tremble.

He does not help you down, but he watches.)

_What did you do, that night?_

( _Give me your hands_ , he commands, and the hour of your despair is late: you promised the devil that you would give him all that you have. You give him your hands and his snake-cool fingers place them with their palms together. Then he laughs, and he says,

 _How like a child at prayer_.

The rope he binds around your wrists is rough against skin long-chafed by cuffs. He draws the knots so tightly, you cannot mute the gasp that escapes your lips. You are kneeling, and to the eye of your beholder you are supplicating, and well may anyone (well may he) laugh at that.

He unlocks your shackles, afterwards. You scarcely feel them fall.

 _The altar-boy_ , he says, stroking your new-grown curls. _Come now. Bow this head._

There is no God to help you, so you do.)

“Yes, it was my favorite place. I didn’t have—I didn’t have another. I never stopped hating it, the city. I hated it because I was away from my family. Not Maglor. The rest—well half-relatives weren’t the same, of course.”

_Closer than that, my boy. How gingerly you move—as if you have more years to your name than you do. Here, I will not leave you so weary as you were at our last visit. Lay your head against my knee. Just so, Maitimo, just so. Do you hate me, still?_

You know that I do.

 _That, in a whisper! Did you ever tell your father, how you hated_ him?

“He never beat us. It was not his way. He was tremendously proud of us, and he—he taught us everything we knew. He taught me how to fire a gun. How to fight hand to hand. He was as quick-witted on the field as at the forge. No one could equal his work, though many tried. Scholars used to write to him from Europe; I would condense the letters to—to treatises he read in his spare time. He was courted in the city by professors and scientists, but he only cared for his craft and his family.”

_And how did he touch you?_

I…

_Did he stroke your hair?_

Yes. Yes, sir.

_Like this?_

“If we did wrong, he scolded us, yes. He told us how we might be better. We were all to—to take care of one another. That is how brothers should be, he said. No, he did not have a close companionship with his own. They did not understand them. There was—”

_Don’t stop there! We shall speak of Feanor all this day, until you unlearn your spite of me. For what was Feanor, but a friend I might have had? An enemy I was grieved to make, but vastly entertained to keep? Nay, do not trouble yourself. Rest, Maitimo. I shall stroke your hair, as he was used, and you shall tell me more about the man who left you behind, twice._

(The hard-knobbed knee presses against your cheek. You cannot move your fingers, though you stare at them fixedly. His nails graze your scalp. Your hair has grown uneven, as it was cut. Mairon shaved it to the skin above one ear, and _there_ it is barely longer than a patch of bristle. A good deal of the rest, though, is enough to card, to twist.

You shut your eyes. His grip tightens cruelly, as you knew it would at the loss of your attention. And though that _is_ pain, you are grateful how his touch no longer feels— _familiar_.)

_You speak of your father’s pride as if you were a soldier and he your general. Your father fought in no wars but his own, Maitimo. You accomplished—not even that; not even any wars. You remember what I told you in your cell, so long ago—he raised sons to be sinners, and you are a model only of sins._

Does it matter, what you think of me?

 _Says the child crouched before me like a dog! Why do you obey me, if you care not for my judgments? Surely it is not because you are_ afraid.

You have seen me tortured beyond recognition. Sir.

 _Have I? Tilt up your chin; let me look in your eyes. I can see you, Maitimo. You are recognizable, still—if the_ you _we speak of is a lad of long ago._

_What did you do, that night?_

“You knew my grandfather, of course. Your brother was terribly fond of him; folk said _they_ might have been brothers. Finwe and Manwe. Even their names were a little alike—”

(You strike the boy across his mocking face.)

(You’ve made him angry. The ceiling whirls overhead and you are in pain, always in pain. Sometimes it sings brighter and louder; sometimes it threatens to take you away, but then it doesn’t.

You’ve made him angry, because you never learn.

He hauls you up. Your face is between his hands.

You whisper, _I’m sorry_ , because you are. Christ, you knelt when he told you, you leaned into his touch when he told you to. You came here and groveled so that you wouldn’t have to be hurt again, like that.

Then you made him angry.)

_I’ve more than half a mind to punish you myself. Do you think I do not know my way around a whip, hey?_

No, sir.

_Or perhaps you would rather I hand you back to Mairon, and let him take a few more inches of skin?_

Please. I am sorry.

_Get up._

“My—Athair didn’t punish me so much as train me. He used to—to teach me that pain could be overcome. N-needles, mostly. I drove needles under my nails, I always did it myself. The marks couldn’t be seen unless you looked closely, but the pain was real. No, it wasn’t enough, here.”

(Your hands are useless. Your knees rebel. You flail and struggle like a downed horse. At last his clammy, iron-tight hand on the back of your neck draws you up beyond your clumsy efforts. That touch hurts, too: almost as much as the knowledge that he has felt the written flesh there. You haven’t even seen it yourself. You haven’t even— _known_ —all that Mairon ruined, for the thought of him burns through everything else.)

“Maglor and Celegorm squabbled a good deal. Once Athair tied them together at the elbow for a whole day until they could learn to be civil. Maglor always hated being—embarrassed, I suppose. Celegorm was just angry.”

_Step lively, Maitimo. That box on the shelf, there. You don’t remember the shelves, do you? We used to have to keep you shackled more fully, when your defiance ran as long as your tongue_.

“I wasn’t—everything Athair punished me for was something I had done wrong. He was fair.”

_Open it, and carry the stone to me_.

(You never even saw it, the gem Athair brought back. It was his secret, his and Grandfather’s. Perhaps they would have shown it to you someday, if you had been the heir they dreamed. Instead you are—you are fumbling with hands bound so tightly you can feel nothing but the desire to wrench them away from the brutal pressure.

That, of course, you cannot do.

The diamond falls from its dark velvet socket. It clatters at your misshapen feet. It is so much quieter than a gunshot, and yet—)

_Pick it up. Pick it up, boy. He was not wearing it when he died. Yes—I was there. I sat comfortably in a cushioned carriage, close enough to see and hear. Oh, it was wondrous to_ hear _._

“My father was ashamed of me dozens of times, you know that. You know all that. I am not intending—I am not being spiteful, sir, but there is nothing to tell that you do not—”

(He says all this as he lowers himself painfully again, while his stiff fingers scrabble, palmed together as you forced them—

He slips the gem between them at last. It is more beautiful than he is, now. And yet—)

_Is it not beautiful? And he, a metal-worker. Did he tool it himself?_

I do not know, sir.

_Because he was gone? Maitimo, was it because he was gone? There. Rest again. I have no more strange creatures to torment you, no harsh terms. Did I not say that you need only sit beside me, and talk to me so?_

Yes, sir. I did not see him shape it.

 _His life’s work in one hand and his son in the other. I am a fortunate victor._ I _am grateful. And you? What did you do, that night?_

I was so afraid that I wept.

(He helps you up, after that. He reaches for the shackles and he fits them around your forearms. He picks the knots out of the ropes himself. You do not hide well, how it hurts. He watches you bite back the grimace, the wince.

He tells you that your hands are cold as well as numb. He closes the manacles but does not release you, he stands square-shouldered to face you, and he chafes your stiff, blood-rushed fingers between his own for a long, terrible while.

You are mute; you are staring at your father’s clear heart, your grandfather’s talisman, glittering on the desk behind him.

He does not tell you to look at him, he does not strike you for your vacant, aching gaze.

Before you go, he says, _Maitimo. Wait._ )

_Show me._

Show you, sir?

_Here is a needle, and here, your still unbroken hand. Why do you recoil? You did this for your father, did you not? You were strong enough as a child, not to cry out?_

I—

_Take it. There, just so. Now drive it to the quick._

(You wince.)

_Try again. For Feanor, since you loved him so._

(This boy, you comfort yourself. This boy—raw-lipped, wide-eyed, slipping silver beneath blunt nails and leaving red, following orders and swallowing sobs—

He has so much left to give.)

\- _III_ –

“Mistake me not, to save my life; for if

I had fear’d death, of all the men i’ the world

I would have ‘voided thee; but in mere spite,

To be full quit of those my banishers,

Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hast

A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge

Thine own particular wrongs, and stop those maims

Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight

And make my misery serve thy turn: so use it—”

_Oh, you drag every syllable so flat. Come now, were you not accustomed to read with your brothers? Your schoolmates?_

“That my revengeful services may prove

As benefits to thee; for I will fight

Against my canker’d country with the spleen

Of all the under fiends. But if so be

Thou dar’st not this, and that to prove more fortunes

Th’art tir’d, then, in a word, I also am

Longer to live most weary, and present

My throat to thee and to thy ancient malice;

Which not to cut would show thee but a fool,

Since I have ever follow’d thee with hate,

Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country’s breast,

And cannot live but to thy shame, unless

It be to do thee service.”

_Not the words of a happy man. Do you agree?_

Yes, sir.

_Is life about happiness, Maitimo?_

No, sir.

_No? Of course it is. Of course it is. That is why you are so wretched, because you want to be happy. Everyone is alike, in this regard._

(You know he sleeps, for you overlisten to his howling dreams, his night ravings. Yet here he is, in the lamplight, long before dawn, and he looks so very weary that you hate Mairon, a little, for cheating you of more time.)

_I have a task for you, Maitimo._

“I haven’t a very beautiful hand, but it is legible. Few could read Maglor’s writing because his thoughts were liable to get ahead of him. And letters took time from his music, so he had rather be writing notes for his harp and violin. I suppose he did not write—as many letters as I. I corresponded for both of us. He _could_ write very sweetly when he chose to, because words were just as natural to him as melodies. I think—I think there was no _mode_ that Maglor could not make his own, but he fancied that he did not have enough time to jot it down.

As for Celegorm, he would rather read root and leaf than paper, until he discovered adventure stories. He wrote long letters, though. Caranthir’s hand was so small and cramped you’d need a glass to enlarge it. Curufin’s was most beautiful. Flowing and smooth and—yes, it was like Athair’s.

They did write to me. I wrote often to them. I don’t know where the letters are, I kept them in school but we—they were burned, probably. We burned all our papers, when—”

_When you went away? To a new life?_

Yes, sir. Athair bid us destroy everything like that last spring.

 _My, my. You_ are _one for burning._

“My youngest broth—brothers. They developed their own language. A code of sorts. Strange symbols. They drove Caranthir half mad, leaving notes all over the house, replacing his little ledgers—yes, he kept ledgers—with their own funny translations. Put ‘em in the oddest places, particularly his bedroom, stuffed in his shirts and boots and underneath his pillow. They thought it was a real lark, of course. No matter how he locked his door, the notes always appeared. Perhaps they would never have stopped—”

_Never? Oh, my dear boy._

“C-Caranthir had enough, at last, and enlisted Curufin’s help.”

_Mend that pen, will you? I thought they didn’t get along. Caranthir and the little Feanor._

They are brothers, sir.

_Is that an answer?_

I—

_I do not take kindly to your attempts at wit. Did your schoolmasters permit you to make light of them? Did you think that natural?_

No! I only meant...Curufin has a sharp tongue, but if Caranthir—in those days, you see, Curufin still did not—please, sir, I only meant that although they often fought, they would help each other still. Caranthir promised to help Curufin with his sums, and Curufin managed the code. He enjoyed games like that. Secrets.

_Your father’s secrets? Oh, there is a little spark. Is that fear? Come here, Maitimo. I must examine you closely when you show me so little of your soul willingly._

I am willing.

_You are not. You only say that you are. But I have not endless time, you know. I have not endless time._

(You move slowly across the floor, though more easily than you did a week ago. You can feel it. _He_ must be able to see it. The windows are glossy black behind him, holding you both close. Too close. He sends you first for his pens and next for his account books. He takes the sheaf of writing paper from the desk himself. 

Then he presses the quill into your hand.

 _Show me your schooling_ , he says, with a twist of amusement in lips and eyes. _Make yourself useful, you wretched dog._

He says that very gently.)

_To the Great Governor, Manwe Sulimo—_

_No, no. I don’t like the sound of that. Say instead, My Dear Brother. My Dear Brother, How long it has been since we parted—more than half a year. I am pleased to report of my own accord that we mark this brave country with an iron band. I enclose the documentation of our latest revenues. Gold may be the wonder of the west, but our mettle and metal will prove lasting._

(Your throat is the same as ever it was, and it seizes shut a little. He slips the thick black account book into your hands, the pages marked with ribbons.

Like a breviary, almost, but the psalms are all numbers and figures, and they crawl, in your sight, over the skin of your hands. You shake your head to chase them away.

The trouble is this: you shake your head.)

_Do you refuse me?_

No, sir.

_Copy down the pages marked, and tally each month. You must learn, Maitimo, that your pretty face is not enough anymore, to get you what you want. You must work for your bread. Shall I order a little bread, today? Are your teeth strong enough for that?_

(There is a _thrill_ almost like the furtive delight of devouring ortolan, to speak with Ancalagon about the latest provision of coal, to watch Gothmog’s sniveling second make his master’s complaints, while the boy sits cross-legged at your feet, scratching at his paper. You pay where you must pay, you placate where you must placate. You note the names, in no book but the book of your mind, and you reach sometimes to ruffle the boy’s clipped curls. He always goes very still under your touch; this is almost monotonous. So hurt, he is ever the bruised reed, the flower whose petals show its torments.

 _Dismissed_ , you say again, as the sun rises higher. Another lackey bounds away. You’d kill every messenger if you could, but that isn’t wise.)

_Are you finished?_

Not yet, sir.

_Hand it over._

I—

_You’ll answer for the work you’ve done. Oh, but this is shameful, Maitimo. Shaking and muddled. No doubt each one of these tallies is wrong. You see how occupied I am! How much I—but never mind._

I have never had a great mind for sums, sir.

_And you were never so much as scolded by those soft teachers of yours. Did they fill your head with a few flowery words and a good many waltzes? I’ve a mind to ruler your hands until they bleed. Stretch them out._

(Pain has already had its way with him. You have another test in mind. He is pale, as if the thought of even such a little punishment is too much for him, but he holds out his palms, the slim fingers unfurling. You have plants that do that, under strange lights. He saw those plants, saw all the awful curios you keep, and he spurned them. You haven’t forgiven him for that.

You rise, and leave him standing thus, and you saunter to your bookshelf.)

_You will not lower your arms, sir. If you cannot be of use with the pen, you will show me how much you have worked to regain your strength. Here, the works of Shakespeare first, that you may learn to elocute more properly—and next, this volume of the mathematics you scorn—and next—_

(One of the messengers, from the south, vexes you so much that you slip a nasty draught into the drink you offer him. He speaks of _Thingol_ , that accursed Spaniard, and then he asks who your servant is.

You are angriest because Maedhros has learned so much _less_ than you wish him to, shuddering there with the burden of your reprimand in his arms—he lifts his angled jaw and looks the man full in the face for a frightened moment, as if his eyes could speak, and you _watch_ —

And then he resolutely turns his gaze to the windows.)

_Do you think yourself free?_

No, sir.

_How many times shall I box your ears? Again? Again? Stand up; square your shoulders. You bring me shame, Maitimo. That is not what I wanted for us._

(It is the letter to Manwe that makes you angry. You never have the pleasure of seeing his face when he heeds your lies.)

_Come now, Maitimo. I lost my temper here. Let us begin again. You stood for half an hour before you weakened and fell. Are you very weak?_

Yes, sir.

_When you whisper, I am moved to such pity. No doubt your mother felt much the same. Ah, your mother—_

\- IV –

“It is rather difficult to say which of us was most like her. In looks, I suppose I took after her. Maglor had her artistry, and Celegorm loved the same way she did. Caranthir—oh, well I only meant that Celegorm was very fierce and very loyal. With animals as well as with us. Yes, a naturalist, as I said. He saved every barn kitten and field mouse that he could. He was powerfully fond of his dog. Yes, the dog came west with us. Celegorm—he did not ask me to persuade Athair on the subject, but I thought I might. I did, for Athair cared…well, he cared about our safety.

Mother? No, she wasn’t cruel. Ever. She was very understanding and kind. I expected Maglor to be sorry to leave her and go to the city, so young. He was only thirteen, and they had always been in—such constant communion. He sang to her, and she painted for him…even as a child he understood her better than I could. But he thrived when we left for New York. He enjoyed every part of it.

No, I don’t think that I had a gift for understanding people. I—I suppose my gifts were largely ones of opportunity. Being the eldest, and thus the first to do things.

I was fifteen. The first time I was really drunk, I was—I think sixteen. I don’t remember. Truly, sir.

She never knew.”

_Never? She never caught you with soured breath and red eyes? Never saw those long legs lurch in a drunken stumble?_

I was careful at home.

_Ah, so very careful. When last we spoke of her, we spoke of how ashamed she would be. But that was before you were so dreadfully changed. What would she say to you, if she could see you now?_

I don’t know.

_That is not good enough, my boy. Hazard a guess._

I can’t.

_Maitimo. This reticence will see you punished, you know this._

The truth is, sir, I do not know her anymore. And she does not know me, after what I have done. I believe she would be—she would be very grieved to—

_Oh, cease your mewling. I can see the perspiration standing out on your brow. Are you afraid?_

Yes, sir.

_Good—it is good to hear you acknowledge it. That is very human of you; it is only the beast who stays brutishly brave. And you are not a beast, are you?_

No sir.

_I am not Mairon; do you fear that I shall beat you? That I shall take another tooth, or an eye, or perhaps an ear?_

My mother…

_It sounds as if what you mean to say is that you expect she would be horrified by what has become of you, within and without._

Yes, sir.

_How needlessly you suffer. Rest again, just here. I know you are trying your best. I can see it in your eyes, along with that human fear. I can see everything in your eyes._

“Once she had to prevent Celegorm from thrashing one of our cousins. Thrashing him more than he already had, that is. Celegorm was always getting into fights. He had a wild, energetic way about him—and there’s plenty of disagreement in a large family. He was—brilliant, at athletics. Swift to learn anything. He always wanted to take my side in games, but it wouldn’t have been fair to let him. We had to even out the odds, for the others. For the younger ones.”

_So Celegorm’s heart was as her heart, but Maglor remained her favorite?_

She didn’t have favorites, sir. She treated us all equally, affectionately.

_Aha! Said like a boy picked first for everything! You are really rather disgusting, in that pretended innocence, Maitimo. No wonder Mairon wanted to carve it out of you._

“Celegorm and Maglor didn’t get on much, no. Maybe that was partly why Maglor didn’t mind moving to the city as much as I suspected he would. I minded it, sir. Yes, I was terribly homesick. I tried to hide it, in—in letters and things. I tried very hard to be happy. I should have been, what with my lessons and…the family around. But I always wanted Formenos. Maglor was glad to get away, not because he didn’t love our family but because it was hard for him to be always bumped about, to be distracted with little children under his feet, and brothers growing fast enough that they wanted to steal his things. Yes, I do believe that Maglor liked the freedom that came with being removed.

Me? We—we were close. We were certainly friends as much as brothers. But I wouldn’t expect him to be happy or unhappy solely on account of _me_. I’m not that important, sir.

Mother assured Maglor and Celegorm that they would love one another all the better when they were men. Time heals—heals all wounds, she said. She thought that a little time apart and a few years would do wonders for them.

I can’t say that she was strictly wrong, but—enough years simply hadn’t gone by, whenever they were forced together again. Maglor was aflame with his talents and his pursuits. Celegorm would rather learn a thing like—like treating the pelt of a squirrel. Yes, sir. Skinning it first. They had very different interests, is what I mean to say. They loved different things. No, that is true. I suppose they loved the same people. And they did love each other. I always thought—I always thought that someday they would get on grandly, given how they were the two halves of Mother. Two perfect halves.”

(Your heart is beating out of your chest. Your lips are moving, your tongue is offering, you are telling so many lies that if they were blood, your mouth would be full of it. You are sullying her name, all their names, and you are doing it willingly. You are telling so many lies that you don’t even feel them properly, now. It is like watching a twisted shadow of yourself, far away, unveil the things that you hold most precious as if they do not matter to him at all.

You are telling so many _truths_.)

_When was the last time you saw her?_

You know that, sir.

_Do I?_

I am sorry, sir, I—

_Turn your cheek; now the other. When was the last time you saw her?_

At the bridge, sir.

“I don’t know if she saw me kill a man. I suppose it doesn’t matter. She would have known later. She was opposed to the fighting. She wanted us to stay behind. To wait.”

(You look at the boy, his face awash with unnatural color where you struck him. He no longer meets your eyes unless you command him to. He sits beside you again today, and his shackled hands and ragged head hang low over his knees. You do not intend to leave him unbound in your presence, to allow him to mull over that much freedom, but you do wish Mairon had not made such a ruin of his flowing hair. Still, it is to your purpose. Still, he is reduced.

For all his length, for all his once-grandeur, you think that at last, he looks _small_.)

_It was she who named you Maitimo._

Yes, sir.

_We spoke of that already. But why did she call you so?_

It was a baby name. A nonsense word.

_A mother’s babble. Because she loved you?_

Yes.

“Mother’s father was an artist, also. They were not writers, but she loved to be read to. Athair would read her poetry, sometimes, at the dinner table. He elocuted with real passion. And that was a common enough occurrence, in our family, to read aloud. We considered it an honor.

Even when Maglor and I were small, we played word games together at the kitchen table. Athair carved us letter tiles, and we pushed them about to form our names. Mother taught us spelling that way, also. Athair wanted the games to be more rigorous, finding the errors in misspelled words and tallying points, but that was a little hard for us to follow.”

_Why did you go with him?_

Beg pardon, sir?

_Why did you go with him? It is apparent to me, my boy, that your mother was kinder. Dearer. And yet—_

I owed my loyalty to my father, sir. I pro—

 _Do not stop there! Were you about to say,_ you promised?

Yes, sir. I promised him I would help him.

_And a word sworn to a father meant more than a heart belonging to a mother?_

I don’t know, sir.

_Oh, I think you do._

“She and I were the only two who knew what it meant to have Athair away all year. We stockpiled every scrap of firewood we could find, we were more frugal than we had been before. We saved and ate all that the garden grew. We didn’t speak of it much, afterwards. It wasn’t her way. She believed that we were stronger as a family if we didn’t harp on the bad times. I thought the same. Maglor disagreed, but we didn’t—we didn’t always see the same things as difficulties. All in all, Mother was happy. She was loved. We all loved her very much, and—and then we left her.”

_Do not weep, Maitimo. The deed is done already, the sin committed. Will your tears bring her back?_

No, sir.

(You fill a cup, always another cup to take the place of one thrown aside, with water and whiskey both. He is not looking at you. _Lift up your head_ , you say, and you seize him by the hair as if he would not have obeyed you otherwise.

 _Drink_ , you tell him.

He is weeping still. Silently. Helplessly. The tears run down his fading cheeks like any other tears.

He drinks.

You lift the cup to your own mouth, afterwards. Proof, when it can do him no good, that there is no secret slipping the wrong way past his lips.)

_You remember that I told you, when you were so wild with fever and pain you could scarcely speak, that your father owed us both much. We are rather slaves to his memory, are we not? So much to understand about Feanor! He was a hard, cruel man, and that is what you wanted. I am, by some accounts, a hard, cruel man, yet I want_ you _. I want the son that Feanor never really loved._

(Once, he would have asked you _why_.)

_Tell me why you chose him. Why you chose this._

I did what I thought would keep my family together, sir. That was all I wanted. It wasn’t—I didn’t think of it as—

(He makes you angry, still. Will he never cease, in between the moments when he offers naught but amusement, to incite in you such scorching ire?)

_You think you did not choose, when Mairon whipped you. You think you did not choose, when little Amrod died. You think you did not choose, when we scarred your body. But you did choose, Maitimo. You chose_ him, _your father, above anyone, and you did it at the bridge, when you left your mother behind._

“If she could say something to me now, sir, she would say I failed her. I failed her that night in our house, and I failed her when I stopped serving at the altar, I failed her when I could not be happy in the city, when I could not—I know what I am.”

_And what is that? What are you?_

A beast.

_But a frightened beast._

Yes, sir.

_Will you defy me again?_

No, sir.

_Would you crawl if I bade you?_

Yes, sir.

_I would not ask something half so distressing, indeed I would not. Be quiet now, Maitimo. I have a few stories for you, of my own._

\- V –

“Your mother was such a plain wench. You say you take after her, but you don’t, Maitimo. You’ve far more of a woman’s lips and eyelashes than she had. Even your hands—this sore finger, these worried nails and rough callouses aside, these are beautiful hands. I held your father’s hands only once, and I marveled at their bones. Consider how much Mairon might have mistreated them. Parting flesh from bone. Severing the joints. Had I ordered it—as I have before—you would think your current state a lucky one. You would dream of being as you are now. Your hands, and you, are whole enough to survive. Was that not my word and comfort to you, Maitimo? I left you whole enough to survive.

The first time I met your mother I met your father also. I never saw any use in her until _that_ night, when I saw that it was she who fancied herself _protector_ , the guardian of the home. No doubt she saw her sons as little lights, flickering candles, and set herself as a broad, plain shield around them.

She was heavy with child when I knew her. _That_ must have been fair Celegorm, given the year. And little did I know that somewhere, far from my sight, you were almost a babe yourself. All round scraped knees and eager fingers, wishing that you understood how to accomplish talent as easily as you accomplished beauty.”

(You are baiting him. He gives you no answer. You insult his mother, and he does not so much as quicken his breathing. His lower lip slips in and out of his teeth, yet he scarcely chews it. Today you have told him to kneel again, and he shakes a little, holding himself upright with the weight of chains dragging down his arms, but he asks for no relief. He is stronger than he was—and weaker than ever.)

_Your father stole a slave from me. Together, we have set my claim to rights, have we not?_

“Rumil had skill. He liked to tell me stories of his life far less than you do, however. He had not your sweet openness. I could scarce get a word from him, without a whip in hand. Mairon tells me that you do not suffer silently. All that stoicism, screamed way, as soon as blood is drawn! If it comforts you, Rumil was much the same. Only Mairon can keep his composure. I often wonder how your father would have fared. I often wonder so much about your father.”

(When next he is whipped, you will stay to watch.)

“Mairon was as young as you were, that night, when I found him. I saved him likewise from a sentence of death. His crimes are his own to keep. I hold nothing against him, except his failures. You understand, I think.”

_Maitimo. Are you listening? Is that a nod? Has your tongue failed you? Have you nothing left to say?_

No, sir.

_Very well. I promised you that you should be quiet today. I like to keep my word. Could you or your buried father say the same? You may wonder where I keep the bones of him, now. Remember that you broke them. Remember that without us, he would have had no map by which to guide his steps. Ask me what I mean._

What do you mean, sir?

_Feanor needed an enemy. Almost as much, he needed a disciple. When he was young, you know, he was nothing at all like you._

“I confess that I never had any intention of following his _every_ move, even after Rumil. But time does more than heal wounds, Maitimo. It teaches us about ourselves. For my part, I soon discovered that the rest of the world was full of dull, humble men who pretended to be proud. Your father never gave a thought either to pride or humility. He simply existed. He was a fool, and a wretch, yes, but not after your grasping fashion.

Feanor was the detritus left by a violent storm; scattered unavoidably. Flotsam and jetsam at his lonely heart.

Did you know him to be lonely? For that is the explanation for his fickle moods, and his rank distrust; even for the times at which he cut you off from him. He was a man who needed love and never trusted it. A man who wearied of worship as some men weary of bread, though it is on bread we live.”

(You wish to have Feanor dragged before you. You wish you could show him the tattered body and the stifled spirit of his eldest son. You _know_ he grieved over cursed Finwe, you _know_ it nearly tore him asunder—

But he died before he was yours. He died before you could ask him what death meant to him.)

“I thought I would find him that night. I had received new word—not of Rumil, but of Feanor’s communications with recent travelers. What did he want, in south or north or— _west_? Had I found him there that night, in Formenos, I would have killed him. I cannot say for certain if the thought is a better one to me than what followed. I lost Feanor, that night, but I found you. You were a key to him I had not previously understood. You were all the weakness he tried to shutter from me. If I had killed him that night, perhaps it would have been done in haste and repented at leisure. Perhaps his absence was a grace after all.

Nonetheless, my road was as long as yours, I deem. Feanor returned, and my spies had news at last. Not of him only, but of Rumil, too. _He_ was heavily guarded in Mithrim, and I had not yet the capacity to wrest him thence. 

I went west myself, hoping to mend what Feanor had torn asunder. Did your father ever tell you of Elu Thingol? The man he cheated of land and mine? Sometimes I wonder, Maitimo, if your heart knows any proper good. Your father was a thief. A liar. A scoundrel. He left no legacy but that. He left very little. I imagine you would agree.

I have his head, and his ring.

You have his eyes.

With these small recoveries, are we to be pitied?”

_I said, are we to be pitied?_

No, sir.

_Enough. You weary me. Do you hear that, Maitimo? I grow weary of you. What shall you do, to make it right? What shall you do, to be Rumil’s better? Shall you serve me?_

Yes. I shall serve you.

_But you will not tell me his secrets._

I do not know them.

_This is another untruth. I am tired of your damnable lies, most of all._

My father did not trust me, sir. It is as you said. He told me nothing that you do not already know.

_Am I to trust you, then?_

No, sir.

“The first time I saw your father, I imagined the color of his blood.”

(He falters. He catches himself on his hands. You rise, sighing, and lift him by the elbows. When he stands at full height, his eyes are level with yours. You grip his wrists in one hand, mindful of the raw skin that no doubt stings beneath your touch. Your touch is no gentler for it. With your other hand, you drag down the collar of his rough shirt, until you can pass your thumb lightly over the scabbed letters there. _F, E, A_ …

 _It is just a word now,_ you say, admiring the rise and fall of his lashes. _A lonely word. Not a name anymore._ )

(You call the guards to take him away.)


End file.
